« AnteriorContinuar »
While in more lengthen'd notes and flow,
The deep, majestic, folemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rife,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away
In a dying, dying fall.
By Music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her foft, assuasive voice applies ;
Or, when the soul is press’d with cares,
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated founds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds :
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouzes from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
Liftning Envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our Passions
wage, And giddy Factions hear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music every bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
'High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Enflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his fev'nfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath’d the shining blade :
And feas, and rocks, and skies rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms !
But when thro' all th' infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear’d,
O'er all the dreary coasts?
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
And cries of tortur'd ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And fee! the tortur'd ghosts respire,
See, fhady forms advance !
Thy stone, O Syfiphus, stands ftill,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,
And the pale spectres dance !
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang lift'ning round their heads.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elysian flow'rs;
By those happy fouls who dwell
In yellow meads of Afphodel,
Or Amaranthine bow'rs;
By the heroe's armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that dy'd for love,
"Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
Oh take the Husband, or return the Wife!
He sung, and hell confented:
To hear the Poet's prayer:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair,
Thus fong could prevail
O’er death, and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard, and how glorious!
Tho' fate had fast bound her
With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious.
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
Again the falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thou now the fatal fifters move?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in mæanders,
He makes his moan;
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever loft!
How with Furies surrounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows:
"See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he fies;
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries,
Ah see, he dies !
Yet even in death Eurydice he fung,
Eurydice ftill trembled on his tongue,
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks, and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And fate's fevereit rage
Music can soften pain to ease,
- And make despair and madness please :
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found,
And to her Maker's praise confin'd the found.
When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,
Th’immortal pow'rs incline their ear :
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire ;
And Angels lean from heav'n to hear. Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n;
His numbers rais'd a shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to heav'n.
'T WAS at the royal feat, for Perja won,
WAS at the royal feast, for Persia won,
By Philip's warlike fon :
Aloft in awful ftate
The god-like hero fate
On his imperial tirone:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should defert in arins be crown'd.
The lovely Thais by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride,
Happy, happy, happy pair;
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre :
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heav'nly joys infpire..
The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
Such is the pow'r of mighty love!